The Feast of the Virgins and Other Poems eBook

[BC] The route of DuLuth above described—­from
the mouth of the Wild-Rice (Mud) River, to Lake Superior—­was
for centuries, and still is, the Indians’ canoe-route.
I have walked over the old portage from the foot of
the Dalles to the St. Louis above—­trod by
the feet of half-breeds and voyageurs for more
than two centuries, and by the Indians for perhaps
a thousand years.

The swift west-wind sang in the sails,
and
on flew the boat like a sea-gull,
By the green, templed hills and the dales,
and
the dark, rugged rocks of the North Shore;
For the course of the brave Frenchman lay
to
his fort at the Gah-mah-na-tek-wahk,[83]
By the shore of the grand Thunder Bay,
where
the gray rocks loom up into mountains;
Where the Stone Giant sleeps on the Cape,
and
the god of the storms makes the thunder,[83]
And the Makinak[83] lifts his huge shape
from
the breast of the blue-rolling waters.
And thence to the south-westward led his course
to
the Holy Ghost Mission,[84]
Where the Black Robes, the brave shepherds,
fed
their wild sheep on the isle Wauga-ba-me,[94]
In the enchanting Cha-quam-e-gon Bay
defended
by all the Apostles,[BD]
And thence, by the Ke-we-naw,
lay
his course to the Mission Sainte Marie,[BE]
Now the waves clap their myriad hands,
and
streams the white hair of the surges;
DuLuth at the steady helm stands,
and
he hums as he bounds o’er the billows:

O sweet is the carol of bird,
And sweet is the murmur of
streams,
But sweeter the voice that
I heard—­
In the night—­in
the midst of my dreams.

[BD] The Apostle Islands.

[BE] At the Sault Ste. Marie.

WINONA AND TA-TE-PSIN.

’Tis the moon of the sere, falling leaves.
From
the heads of the maples the west-wind
Plucks the red-and-gold plumage and grieves
on
the meads for the rose and the lily;
Their brown leaves the moaning oaks strew,
and
the breezes that roam on the prairies,
Low-whistling and wanton pursue
the
down of the silk-weed and thistle.
All sere are the prairies and brown
in
the glimmer and haze of the Autumn;
From the far northern marshes flock down,
by
thousands, the geese and the mallards.
From the meadows and wide-prairied plains,
for
their long southward journey preparing.
In croaking flocks gather the cranes,
and
choose with loud clamor their leaders.
The breath of the evening is cold,
and
lurid along the horizon
The flames of the prairies are rolled,
on
the somber skies flashing their torches.
At noontide a shimmer of gold